Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

  “How disappointing,” Charmian said.

  “Yes,” I said. “They lack a certain charm, somehow.”

  “Can you get us out of here?” Charmian asked.

  “This little bread box?” I asked. “Sure. But the real trick to escaping is in knowing exactly when to do it.”

  “We don’t do it now?” Charmian asked.

  “I think this TAR-A-GAL wisenheimer is going to come back soon,” I said. “If I know my wisenheimers, and I think I do, I’d say TAR-A-GAL is going to come back in a minute.”

  “How do you know he’ll come back in a minute?” Charmian asked.

  “Because wisenheimers always come back in a minute,” I said.

  “Why?” Charmian asked.

  “They lack patience,” I said, “and they lack nerve. But most of all they lack brains. So they always do the obvious thing while all the time thinking they’re doing the smart thing. The obvious thing is to come back in four, three, two, one— seconds.”

  The door slid open suddenly. One of the crewmen stepped into the room followed by TAR-A-GAL. The crewman reached up with a key and unlocked my handcuffs. That was the crewman’s big mistake: he let me see the key and I photographed the shape of its teeth in my mind; it was just like snapping a picture. I closed my eyes and I could still clearly see that key. I opened my eyes and knew that I would be able to see that key again when I needed to see it in the near future.

  My hands came out of the handcuffs that remained hanging on the chain near the eyelet in the wall. I brought my hands down to my sides, but the crewman immediately secured them in another set of handcuffs. He then shoved me forward and I went through the door and out into the main corridor of the Martian airship.

  In the corridor, I was shoved along by several crewmen until we reached another door through which I was thrust.

  I was now in a larger room. One wall was covered in flashing lights of various colors. At another wall was a bank of controls, such as found on electrical switch-boards. Some crewmen were seated in swivel chairs in front of these controls; they were monitoring gauges on the boards in front of them and turning dials. In the middle of the room stood a circular platform, similar to the one upon which Charmian and I had been deposited by the Martian’s anti-gravity beam. This platform’s surface scintillated back and forth with blue and green light. A kind of large metallic cone was mounted upon the ceiling directly over the circular platform. At the other end of the room a white, oval screen hung on the wall. This, I was to soon see, was a kind of motion picture projection screen, except that what was projected upon this screen was not motion pictures created from photographs imprinted on strips of celluloid film; upon this screen motion pictures were projected directly from events occurring in the past and future— a magic mirror upon the wall.

  Several Martian crewmen filed into the room. Finally, TAR-A-GAL entered the room, turned about and said something in the Martian language.

  Through the door another person entered the room. He was a Martian, but he did not look like a Martian. He had been dressed to look like a man of earth, a citizen of the United States, and the makeup on his face and hands had covered his white skin to give it the ruddy glow of an earthman of the Caucasian race. Dark discs of glass had been fitted into his eyes; these discs were designed to float upon the surface of the eyeball in order to simulate the colored irises of the people of earth. The Martian wore a carpenter’s overalls, a cap, and— a mustache. He was “Mr. Mustache.” I did not move a muscle.

  TAR-A-GAL began to speak to the crew in Martian. I listened to his words as he spoke in his deep voice. The Martian language rolled forth from his lips staccato and sharp, without the sound of music or poetry in it. I wondered: Was this sharp, almost barking sound, intrinsic to the Martian tongue, or was it only the sound of TAR-A-GAL’s own voice that assaulted my ears?

  TAR-A-GAL turned and pointed at me and roared forth sounds into the air. I did not need to understand Martian to know what he was saying. He was accusing me and condemning me.

  “You are finished,” TAR-A-GAL said to me, dropping back into English. “You will now not just die. You will cease to exist as if you never have existed. This, for you, will be worse than death. Your very soul will be cast out of time and into utter nothingness. There you will experience nothingness— forever!”

  TAR-A-GAL laughed wildly, an insane laugh, and it was here where I began to wonder if TAR-A-GAL was mad— or something worse. TAR-A-GAL went on, speaking in English, and as I looked back and forth between him and his crewmen, I realized that all of these Martians were listening to TAR-A-GAL and understanding what he was saying. I realized that all of these Martians could speak perfect English. TAR-A-GAL went on:

  “The armchair philosophers have always told us what is and is not possible! On both your planet and mine they have done this. Always they have absolute answers which turn out to be nothing but empty delusions. And always they tell us what cannot be done! Always they are experts on negatives! Negatives! Ha! I say: my will negates their negatives! The will of the powerful negates all negatives! The will achieves! The will can achieve— anything! Nothing is impossible to great will. Time? It is nothing. Time is clay in the hands of will. Time can be shaped, twisted, turned. Time can be sped, slowed, and stopped! Yes, time can be stopped— and it can be reversed! The armchair philosophers have said: ‘No! This is not possible! This cannot be done!’ The philosophers have said, ‘No! A reversal of time is a logical paradox! It cannot be done! Logic won’t permit it! We cannot kill our own grandfathers!’ Ha! This is the reasoning of the weakling, of the fool, of the armchair philosopher. Only men of will who live by blood and flesh know what time is! Only we men of will can shape time— take hold of the flowing sands and stop their motion— reverse their motion— make what once was not…what now is!”

  TAR-A-GAL stopped speaking and looked me up and down, and then he resumed his speech:

  “A man such as you are can be made to cease to exist. By sending a man back into the past— say, this man here—“

  TAR-A-GAL placed his hand upon Mr. Mustache’s shoulder.

  “—say I sent him back into the past to kill you. You would suddenly cease to exist in this present time. It is very interesting how we have proven the armchair philosophers wrong. By killing a man in the past, he simply ceases to exist in the present. The killing is actually done in a parallel universe from ours— an exact duplicate of our own. But there is a trans-temporal interaction between the two universes. When the man is killed in the past of the duplicate universe, his self in this present universe also ceases to exist— suddenly, immediately, now. There is no change in our history, only in our present reality. It is called among our scientists nenshatata— temporal correspondence; it is a non-linear interaction between two energy systems. Two times become linked in a corresponding analog when a time traveler is sent backwards along the time-line of a parallel universe. The time-line of the past corresponds with the time-line of our present. In a larger sense, they become one time. The time traveler can jump forward or backward on his time-line, but in each of the segments of time in which he exists, he links his time with ours. We can, in turn, also move forward or backward in our viewing of the time-line of the time traveler. At each viewing we become trans-temporally linked with that time; the two times become one. Thus, should a time-traveler kill a man in the past in a parallel universe while we watch the deed done on the screen there upon the wall the parallel version of that same man would instantaneously cease to exist in the present of our own universe. It is a trans-temporal interaction. Also, most interestingly, many of the things associated with the man would also cease to exist— the many things he has handled and used in his lifetime— they would also blink out of existence. It is most curious— and most delightful.”

  “Why all the hocus pocus?” I asked. “Why don’t you just kill me in some ordinary way?”

  “Oh,” TAR-A-GAL said, “how I’d like to. Oh, how I’d like to kill you with
my bare hands, twist your head off with my bare hands, you little swine. But I can’t do it, because you’ve gone and made a mess of things. I can’t kill you in an ordinary way because of what you have done to the Bell of Time— that device you attached to it. You’ve placed a lock upon the Bell and only you can release it.”

  “Oh, my,” I said. “I’ve made a mess, tsh, tsh, tsh.”

  “You are truly an imbecile!” TAR-A-GAL screamed. “Soon you will be an imbecile in the void of nothingness! Utter, unimaginable, imprisonment in nothingness! No air to breathe! No water to drink! No place to move! Nothing to think— except that you cannot think! Oh, how I wish I could see you suffer in the void, see your mind scream in the void!”

  “You sure wish for a lot, TAR— or is it Mr. A-GAL?”

  TAR-A-GAL shouted out something in Martian, and Mr. Mustache stepped upon the circular platform that was scintillating with light.

  “I could force you to go down and remove the device you have attached to the Bell,” TAR-A-GAL said. “But I have a much better idea. My idea requires no involvement from you at all. You are now irrelevant. It is a simple matter. I will have you killed in a parallel universe before you can attach the device to the Bell, and you and the device will cease to exist now in our universe. Ah, I can see that even you realize that it is a simple matter— a simple matter of taking sufficient…time.”

  TAR-A-GAL laughed and then slashed his hand in the air.

  I heard a click over at the control board, and suddenly Mr. Mustache blinked out of existence. TAR-A-GAL laughed, and then shouted something in Martian again, and again I heard a click at the control board, and, once again, just as suddenly, Mr. Mustache blinked back into existence upon the circular platform.

  “Time travel is very easy, you see,” TAR-A-GAL said. “The universe is absolutely saturated with time travelers. True power only begins with the ability to travel backward and forward in time.”

  Mr. Mustache went over and said something in Martian to TAR-A-GAL. Suddenly TAR-A-GAL shouted out something, and one of the crewmen went out the door. The other crewmen moved to the side of the room so that TAR-A-GAL could have a clear view of the oval shaped screen on the wall.

  “This man here dressed as an earth-dweller,” TAR-A-GAL said, “has just spent of two months of his time investigating the vicinity of Oakland, California as it existed two months and eight days ago from our present time. He has learned many interesting things, things about the city of Oakland, things about the operation of theatres, especially the Orpheum Theatre where you have just completed a week of appearances. Perhaps you recall seeing this man here with a mustache dressed as a common earth-laborer. Do you recall seeing him— perhaps this past week?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve never seen anybody that ugly before in my life.”

  “I think you’ve seen him before,” TAR-A-GAL said. “And in the past of this last week, you are about to see him again.”

  “You’ve got me confused there,” I said.

  “I’m sure I have,” TAR-A-GAL said.

  The crewman who had gone out the door now came back into the room. Behind him, another man came through the door, another Martian made-up and costumed to look like an earthman. This Martian was wearing a suit and a straw hat.

  “Your hat is out of season,” I said to the Martian. “That skimmer is for summer wear. Nobody wears straw hats in the winter except me. Everybody down there is sure to know you’re a Martian. You better all give up now and surrender. I’ll take your guns.”

  “Shut up!” TAR-A-GAL screamed. He then turned to Mr. Mustache and the other disguised Martian and barked a series of sounds at them; it was their marching orders. The two disguised Martians stepped up on to the circular platform. I heard the click again, and they both blinked out of view.

  The oval screen on the wall flashed and went from a blur into a clear focus showing the shop room in the Orpheum. Now I could see a view of Mr. Mustache opening my red trunk.

  “The dirty thief!” I shouted.

  “Silence!” TAR-A-GAL shouted back at me.

  “Watch the picture show, wisenheimers,” I said. “Watch how Houdini gets him.”

  “I thought you said you never saw him before,” TAR-A-GAL said.

  “He was just a wisenheimer,” I said with a shrug. “Why should I remember a wisenheimer?”

  The oval screen showed a view of Mr. Mustache pulling opening the false bottom on my red trunk.

  “Oh,” TAR-A-GAL said, “what a flimsy little artifice! A false bottom! Really.”

  “Keep watching, TAR,” I said, “and see who hits bottom.”

  The oval screen blurred out and then came into focus again still showing a view of the shop room, but a view of a few minutes later. The screen showed Collins and me standing before my opened red trunk; I was holding the plan book with the missing page. I said on the screen:

  “Who’s been in here?”

  I watched and listened as the oval screen projected the sights and sounds of the exact conversation that had transpired between Collins and me on the previous Saturday. Then the image on the screen blurred again and then re-focused to show a view of me chasing Mr. Mustache down the alley behind the Orpheum Theatre. I saw myself catch up with Mr. Mustache and grab him by the back of his shirt. I saw him swing around with his fist, saw me duck his hook and deliver a blow of my own to his chin that knocked him over. I heard myself say:

  “Hold it right there or I’ll beat you into the ground!”

  And then I watched Mr. Mustache on the screen as he reached inside his overalls and brought out a little box in his hand. I saw how I stood back and watched as Mr. Mustache blinked into invisibility on the screen— and immediately blinked into visibility directly in front of me on the oval platform.

  TAR-A-GAL gave a shout to Mr. Mustache.

  I looked back to the oval screen. It showed a view of the other Martian in an automobile driving away at the end of the alley. The screen blurred out and refocused instantly, revealing a view of the other Martian pulling the automobile to a stop inside a garage and then instantly disappearing in the driver’s seat. In that same instant, the Martian reappeared, standing on the circular platform beside Mr. Mustache.

  TAR-A-GAL stepped toward the platform and extended his hand. Mr. Mustache reached inside his overalls and pulled out a piece of paper— I recognized it as the missing page from my plan book, the page with the diagram of the release catches on the water cell. Mr. Mustache gave the page to TAR-A-GAL who took it and held it up in the air, studying it. TAR-A-GAL gave out a long, sustained laugh.

  Finally he spoke:

  “Such a stupidly simple contrivance! And you are paid to demonstrate this stupidity on a daily basis for endless crowds of idiots? You see, this is what the civilization of earth amounts to— a frivolous exercise in stupidity! Give the masses a little freedom and this is what they choose to indulge! Your little magic trick needs adjusting. Yes, it needs to be made a bit more challenging. Your escape, to be of real interest, should be utterly impossible. We will see to that. We will see that your escape is made impossible. Truly, you will soon face a drowning death— in the past!”

  TAR-A-GAL exploded in laughter and waved Mr. Mustache over to a counter by the control board. There, TAR-A-GAL pointed at the diagram showing the release catches on the water cell. I could hear a discussion passing between them spoken in low tones of the Martian language.

  Suddenly Mr. Mustache bounded back up on to the platform and stood with the other Martian. In a moment, a click sounded from the control board and the two Martians on the circular platform blinked out of existence.

  TAR-A-GAL barked another sharp order in the Martian tongue. The oval screen on the wall suddenly started to slide apart. The screen divided into two screens.

  TAR-A-GAL spoke:

  “We now have the power to access and view two parallel dimensions at a time— our own dimension and another almost exactly the same. The screen on the left is our own dimension, showi
ng the past of our own universe. The other dimension shown upon the screen on the right is a near-exact parallel version of our own space and time. We now have the ability to make a twist at certain points along our time-line. First let us observe what transpires in our own universe.”

  The oval screen on the left flashed with light and came into focus, showing Mr. Mustache trying to bend the catch on the water cell’s stocks by using a screwdriver as a prying lever. I immediately realized that I was seeing the Sunday of the week before, the first day of my Oakland run. I watched him on the screen struggling to bend the catch. As I watched, I realized that I was seeing a parallel version of reality from what I had experienced on that Sunday. Since Sunday I had switched into the universe in which I now existed, and Mr. Mustache had projected backward in time through this same universe. As I kept watching, I knew that what I was seeing may not have been exactly the same as what the Mr. Mustache in my universe had done on the previous Sunday, but I knew it was probably close enough to give me an idea of how the water cell had been damaged. On the screen in front of us, Mr. Mustache kept prying with the screwdriver.

  “You can’t do it that way,” I finally said.

  “Quiet!” shouted TAR-A-GAL.

  Then on the screen I saw Mr. Mustache pick up a hammer and use it to tap the handle of the screwdriver.

  “Oops,” I said, “you’re going to slip!”

  “Silence!” TAR-A-GAL shouted. “Be silent or I’ll have you gagged.”

  On the screen Mr. Mustache’s hand holding the screwdriver suddenly slipped. The screwdriver slid down against the plate glass of the water cell and cracked it.

  TAR-A-GAL shouted something in Martian.

  The viewing screen went out of focus, and then re-focused to show my assistants chasing Mr. Mustache down the alley behind the theatre. I watched as on the screen Mr. Mustache dived into the open automobile and the other Martian drove it away.

  “Ah,” TAR-A-GAL said, “you see? He made it all the way to the automobile this time! We’re getting closer, Houdini— getting closer…to getting you!”